


The dogwalker

by BlazeRiddle



Series: Practice [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Different Meeting AU, Gen, Pre-Slash, Sherlock is not a very good detective if he missed this one, ish, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:24:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9876299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeRiddle/pseuds/BlazeRiddle
Summary: i hired a dog walking company and i’ve never met the person who comes to my apartment but they leave me really cute notes and they give my dog presents and i kind of love them because my dog does and ALSO one of the artists at this gallery opening is hella cute and i want them to paint me like one of their french girls AU





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was looking for writing ideas and came across [this masterpost](http://perfectlyrose.tumblr.com/post/101118660910/au-prompts-masterlist-of-lists) with this [little list of gems about confused identity AUs](http://meetcuteproject.tumblr.com/post/100613200058/mickeyed-fic-where-they-know-each-other-but) and just chose the one that immediately started a movie in my head because it was amazing.

In the end, maybe it hadn't been the best idea to accept the client's payment offer. Sure, dogs were the only type of animal Sherlock could stand, and if he was honest with himself, he _loved_ them, and sure, when the happy-to-be-saved breeder had held up the too-small-for-his-skin puppy for him to see, Sherlock's heart had just _melted_ , and sure, coming home to a creature falling over himself to greet him and lick his feet and ankles and when he can reach it, his face, is _amazing,_ but maybe adopting a puppy with a schedule as busy as his wasn't the best idea. After all, the pup -Sherlock had refused to name it Redbeard II, so Mrs Hudson had dubbed him Gladstone- needed to be walked regularly during the day, and Sherlock was often away on cases, or busy at the morgue, or he would simply forget the time and accidentally neglect his new, infinitely cute flatmate. There was no way Sherlock would kick the creature out, though, because Mycroft seemed to be allergic, and Mrs Hudson loved the little thing, so Sherlock decided to go for the most logical solution: he hired a dog walker.

He checked them out, of course, did a thorough background search before he let any possible kleptomaniacs or serial killers into the sanctuary of oddities that was his apartment. He eventually narrowed it down to one, near-perfect pick: Dr. John Watson, freshly home from the army, dog walking as a passing of time and physiotherapy. He was obviously reliable: A clean army record, honourable discharge because of an injury. On his web page, he'd stated he lived in a bedsit, which checked out, and he had some other personal information there (age, hobbies; _irrelevant_ ) but oddly, no photo. Sherlock didn't really care. He contacted the doctor, made an appointment for the man to walk his dog six days in the week, and basically forgot about it after that.

 

He was reminded of the dog sitter the Tuesday after; he came home from a crime scene to find Gladstone on the couch, happily slobbering and chewing on a plastic hamburger. The detective frowned at the unfamiliar toy, and carefully took it from his mouth. "Who gave you this, then?" He wondered out loud. The answer was obvious, really. The toy was new, but Gladstone had been chewing on it for at least most of the afternoon, if the tooth marks were anything to go by, and Mrs Hudson would more likely buy something pink and frilly, just to annoy the detective. "Watson gave this to you, didn't he?" Sherlock tossed the slimy thing back on the sofa and Gladstone gladly grabbed it. "Why?"

 

The mystery only grew bigger. Over the next month, things kept showing up at the apartment: chew toys shaped like pigs, moustaches, giant smiles, rope toys tied to look like giraffes and elephants, and once, a giant, half-deflated rubber ball, bigger than Gladstone's entire body, that the puppy just used to nap on. The dog loved them all, and secretly, Sherlock appreciated them as well, because they made Gladstone happy and content and that content puppy was the best company in the world. (As long as no one around, Sherlock had decided, he could give in to sentiment and no one would ever know he had a heart.) He was getting more and more curious about John, though, because the man was an _ex-army doctor_ , _living on an army pension and making an extra buck on_ dog walking, _of all things_ , so why was he wasting money on Gladstone? It was utterly ridiculous, and, to Sherlock's chagrin, an utterly unsolvable conundrum.

 

A month and a half after Sherlock had hired John's walking service, a relatively _dull_ case brought the detective to an amateur art exhibit to catch an embezzler. He took his time to wander around, trying to seem interested in the several renditions of sunflowers and splash patterns while he searched the crowd for his suspect.

His gaze was caught by a man standing next to a series of colourful paintings. Short, standing at a loose parade's rest, muscles hidden by a ridiculous jumper. Blond, with a minor scattering of grey. Handsome. Very much _not_ the subject.

Sherlock moved closer, anyway.

The man noticed him, smiled at him. Stepped aside to allow him to study the paintings. They were slightly abstract paintings of dogs, the shapes obviously belonging to different breeds, but their pelts coloured as if a rainbow had vomited on them. There was a shepherd there, in bright pink and blue and yellow, and Sherlock mimicked its head tilt, wondering if the painter got nauseous as he painted it.

"Like it?" A deep, kind voice asked, just above and behind his shoulder. He hummed in response, studying the card next to the canvas.

_Colours of friendship, by Harriet._

"It's... unique." Sherlock managed, turning to look at the shorter man. "Better than most drivel here, _Harriet_."

The man chuckled. "Harry's my sister. She's-" His face contorted just a bit, in pain, or regret, or both, "Unable to come. Ill. I'm standing in for her."

Sherlock titled his head. _Ill._ It was a term his mother used to use, back when she thought he'd be curable, as if there was a _magic pill_ to kill the urge for- In the end, he managed to get off it, without a pill. _Irrelevant_.

"Yes, alcohol is known for its ability to contain dangerous bacteria." The words were out before Sherlock could stop them, and the man froze, blinked at him. The detective braced himself for the shoe to drop, for the obviously-strong man to swing and hit him in the jaw -or more likely, going by his height, his chest- but instead, the man huffed.

"How did you-" He shook his head, "Never mind. Amazing, how you figured that out. Just... keep your voice down, yeah? Or don't, people love a tortured artist."

Sherlock chuckled; again, the sound was out before he could help himself.

"John." The stranger held out his hand, and Sherlock shook it.

"Sh-" He stopped himself. He was on a case, after all. "Scott. Pleasure to meet you."

"How _did_ you do that, anyway?" John asked, radiating openness and curiosity, and nothing else. Sherlock looked at him again, _observed_. Ex-army, still tanned from his tours and still ingrained with his training -Afghanistan or Iraq- left shoulder tucked behind his back more loosely than the right - injury, possibly, perhaps shot wound? Would explain why he's here- bright eyes, blue or green or brown, _irrelevant_ , strong set jaw, short, coarse hairs _that he'd just love to run-_

"I'm a detective." He explained, pushing the train of thought away. The man was obviously trustworthy, loyal if he was here to stand in for his drunk sister, so he was sure he could lift the mysterious veil a bit. "I _deduce_ things. I _observe_."

" _Amazing_."

Sherlock felt his lips quirk into a smile. "You've mentioned that." From the corner of his eye, he spotted the embezzler moving through the crowd, towards the exit. He had to be quick if he wanted to catch the man with the evidence, so he took off, throwing an hasty "Excuse me" over his shoulder for the man he'd been talking to, forgetting about him as his focus shifted, not realising the man was right on his tail.

The embezzler was quick, but Sherlock, with his long legs and billowing coat, was quicker. He managed to pull the man into a non-crowded hallway off the side, pushing him against the wall and demanding his phone and wallet. Lestrade will be pissed about the mugging later, but he needed to make sure the man couldn't get rid of any messages or receipts before the police arrived.

He hadn't counted on the embezzler's cross-fit classes.

The man pushed back, growling, and broke free. He swung for him, and though Sherlock could avoid the first punch, he got hit hard by an uppercut right after. It slammed the air out of his lungs, and he staggered back, surprised. He'd miscalculated.

He'd expected another blow, braced himself for it, but all that followed was a dull _thunk_ and then the sound of someone heavy hitting the ground. When he looked up, John the soldier was there, standing grim and determined, the embezzler groaning at his feet.

Sherlock quirked a brow. "Thank you."

John smirked, something _very_ dangerous in the way he held himself. "Well." He met Sherlock's eyes, and the detective suppressed a shiver because _they were a steel blue at the moment_ , "I couldn't let you leave without this."

He offered a scrap of paper with, Sherlock _deduced_ , his phone number. "Why would I need that?"

John smirked. "In case you'd ever want to meet over coffee to talk about art. Or... anything, really." The flirting was blatantly obvious, but for once, Sherlock didn't mind. Frankly, he was flattered. After all, _John was a soldier_.

He offered his own smile, pocketing the number. "I'll keep it in mind."

 

***

 

_Your sister's artwork is frankly ridiculous. -SH_

_I know. Who's this? ~John_

_Scott. I'd figured you might've remembered who you'd given your number. -SH_

_How many people do you give your number to? -SH_

_Only the cute ones ;) ~John_

_Don't ever do that again. -SH_

_What? (a) ~John_

_You know what, That one doesn't even make sense. -SH_

_UR 2QT. IDK WDYM O=) ~John_

_You're highly annoying if only because I had to Google that. -SH_

_Are you always like this? -SH_

_Nope. Kind of forgot I had to make an impression. ~John._

_Idiot. -SH_

_Git. ~John_

_BORED. -SH_

_You always seem to be. Wanna go for that coffee? ~John_

_Can't. Crime scene. -SH_

_Too bad. Later? ~John_

_Perhaps. -SH_

_BORED. Coffee again? -SH_

_Can't. Working. ~John_

_Ditch it. Could be fun. -SH_

_My clients would never forgive me. Dinner? ~John_

***

 

John was nice. John was fun. John was extremely not-boring to hang out with, and he was interested in Sherlock's cases, surprisingly enough. Sherlock had explained that Scott wasn't his real name, but he'd preferred it -if John ever turned out to be an evil mastermind, it might be better he never knew his full name- and John understood, completely. John was nice, and flirty, and amazing.

Sherlock still wasn't sure what he did for a living.

There was also the case of Gladstone's gift-giver. It was getting out of hand, to the point that Mrs Hudson had noticed and had insisted he'd do something to repay 'that poor Mr Watson' because 'surely his pension doesn't cover that, dear'. So, Sherlock decided to leave the man a note. Short, to the point, and -after running it past Mrs Hudson a few times- polite, left on the door to the apartment, on eye-height so it wouldn't be missed.

 

_Dear Dr Watson,_

_However much Gladstone and I appreciate it, I do not pay you to buy my dog gifts. Please contact me to arrange the matter._

_Sherlock Holmes_

He'd left his phone number underneath, to make sure the doctor _would_ call as soon as possible, and then he was off to the morgue, to investigate a body that had been dragged out of the Thames.

 

The message came around noon.

_You know, you have the same phone number as one of my clients. ~John_

Sherlock frowned at it, his brain still caught up in the case -sex worker, dumped by enraged client.

_Are you a gigolo? -SH_

_What? No. Is this a case? Probably. ~John_

_I guess we never talked about it. I walk dogs. ~John_

_For people who don't have time to do it themselves, mostly. ~John_

_Dogs like adorable English bulldog pups that slobber over everything. ~John_

_And have a kleptomaniac streak. Though now I see where he gets it from. ~John_

_I like Sherlock better, by the way. ~John_

The messages come in as a stream, one after another, and suddenly the real world hit the detective like a ton of bricks. His brain skids to a halt as he realised what John was talking about. The gifts. The mysterious job.

_Gladstone. -SH_

_You don't have to spell it out for me, John, I'm not an idiot. -SH_

_You with me then? ~John_

_I will still have to compensate you for all the gifts he stole. -SH_

_Just buy me dinner, you git. ~John_

_Tonight. Seven. You know where I live. -SH_ Sherlock sent, a smile splitting his face in half. Then, as an afterthought: _I'd love to hear what Gladstone's been up to. -SH_

**Author's Note:**

> You made it through the story! Yeay! Please let me know if you liked it, I might do more of the list ^_^  
> For full disclosure, and because I always list all my sources, I had to use [this cheat sheet of text language](http://www.netlingo.com/acronyms.php) because fuck it, I just speak in full sentences and emoticons. :)  
> Also, if you have prompts of ideas for stories (doesn't have to be related to any specific fandom) or if you just want so stop by and say hi, drop by at my [Tumblr,](http://blazeriddle.tumblr.com/ask) or [my Twitter.](https://twitter.com/BlazeRiddle) You can also read some of the other, non-fanfic stuff I do on [my Wordpress blog.](https://blazeriddle.wordpress.com/) Might be fun :)


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